Ordinarily, I don’t really consider myself a quirky person. I merely have rules concerning how certain things should be/look/sound/act/die. But, really, they’re only “quirks” if they are odd, and since these all seem perfectly rational to me, how could they possibly be quirks? For instance:

1. I can’t sleep without a fan blowing in my room. It doesn’t matter if it’s the dead of winter and our heater’s broken and the wind chill from the fan is likely to lead to frostbite. The fan must be on. This, of course, pissess off my quirky husband who likes to sleep bathed in a thin sheen of sweat but who won’t — under any circumstances — fall asleep under the covers. Me, I have to be underneath a thick blanket to fall asleep, even in 90 degree weather. And while it’s conceivable that I wouldn’t need a blanket if there weren’t a fan blowing directly on me, the lack of air circulation would keep me awake, growing pissier by the minute as I fidgeted and scratched, consumed by dust mites and stealth mosquitoes which wouldn’t stand a chance of bothering me if there were a fan blowing directly at my bed. See, I told you it’s not a quirk.

2. I hate it when someone reads my newspaper before I do. Although I’ve told this to almost everyone who’s ever stayed at our house, most people think I’ll be fine if they read my newspaper so long as they make sure it’s all neatly returned to its original order. Wrong. See, it’s not just being the first person to read it that matters.

During the week, my husband is the one to retrieve the newspaper from the driveway. He leaves it for me on the kitchen counter looking exactly like he found it: wrapped with a rubber band on sunny days, tucked into an orange plastic bag when rain is in the forecast. Just seeing it, I know what weather to expect for the day, and I also know that he took time out of his morning to bring the paper in for me. It’s kind of a short-hand between us, a daily confirmation that I still matter to him.

On the weekends, I’m the one who gets the paper. I shuffle outside in my PJs, and the fresh morning air helps me wake up enough to make coffee. I bend over to pick up the paper and stretch out any stiffness from sleeping in the wrong position the night before. On my way in, I wave to my elderly neighbor who spends most of his free time working on his lawn and do a quick visual scan to see if my own lawn or garden needs attention that day. I start the coffee and read the entire front page section before filling my first cup. Then — and only then — am I happy to talk to others.

But, see, when someone else reads my newspaper before I do, I don’t get that abbreviated “rubber band or plastic bag?” weather forecast. I don’t get that warm, fuzzy feeling that my husband did something sweet to start my day. I don’t get those 20 minutes of perfect silence while I read the first section. Instead, I get a rifled-through newspaper that’s not nearly as crisp and tidy as it would’ve been if people had kept their goddamned mitts off it. I get to sit down and struggle to read even one story without someone cheerily interrupting to ask, “Have you read that story about so-and-so yet?” when, clearly, I haven’t had the chance. I get demands for my attention and civility before I’ve even had coffee, and I get to step around others who are crowding my kitchen at the one time of the day that I most desperately want to be left alone. I get squat, which is why I now put my newspaper delivery on “hold” when we have houseguests. And I don’t think that’s all that quirky, either — it’s just how I like starting my day, and a good houseguest wouldn’t screw with that.

3. I am a stickler for certain rules of the road. People who don’t signal before changing lanes make me livid. Ditto for people who don’t signal before they make a turn. But the idiots that really piss me off are the ones who pull into the left lane at a stoplight and don’t turn on their left turn signal until the light changes from red to green. Damn it, people, one little flip of the signal lever and other folks would know to get into the right-hand lane to avoid your lazy ass. And while we’re at it: (1) Those yellow and white lines on the road are there for a reason beyond decorative purpose, so don’t nudge your car over the line toward mine; (2) Minimum speed limits aren’t merely suggestions — if you can’t drive faster than that, stay the hell out of my way; and (3) If you drive so close to the back of my car, don’t you even try getting uppity with me if I tap my brakes to make you back the hell off. But those aren’t quirks, really, either. Safety first, and all that.

4. My desk is MY desk, and that goes for everything on, over, under and within it. For years, “my desk” was the kitchen table and I was happy to let it pull double-duty. Knowing how territorial I can be with my stuff, I always cleared off the table for meal times and freely turned it over to my kids when they needed it for art projects, homework or games. But when I was working at it, when I had my books and computer and coffee cup and other such writerly stuff strewn about, it was clearly in use and mine, and the instant anyone set something on it, borrowed a pencil, or even dared to sit down, that was it. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t work. I’d have to stop whatever I was doing and put my things away because my space, after all, had been violated.

I thought I’d solved that problem not long ago when I finally got my very own desk. A roll-top desk, with shiny gold locks on the drawers and the top, a desk that says by its very appearance: this is my space so don’t touch it. But noooo. My husband still forages through it whenever he needs a pen or pair of scissors (because, after all, walking 20 more steps to his desk is too much effort). My son likes to race his Matchbox cars over the rolltop and regularly stashes all of his stuffed animals in the space where my feet belong. My daughter helps herself to the bottle of hand lotion I keep in one drawer, then rummages through all of the others in the hopes she’ll find my stash of candy and cash.

Now, before you go thinking that this is undoubtedly a quirk, let me assure you it’s not. I simply have a certain way that things on and in my desk must be arranged when I sit down to write, and I can’t think at all unless everything is where I expect it to be. So it’s not a quirk: I’m just tidy. M’kay?

5. Last but not least, I hate other people’s quirks:

•I hate it when people suck their teeth.

•I hate it when contact lens wearers stick their fingers in their eyes to move their lenses around when they start to dry out.

•I hate it when people use toothpicks at the table.

•I hate the way some women make fragile little crescents out of the tip of their lipsticks, and how others shape theirs into a rounded block rather than a nice, symmetrically tapered point.

•I hate it when people slurp their coffee, chew loudly, smack gum or audibly stir tea.

•I hate it when people describe something as “tasty” when what they really mean is that it’s wonderful, flavorful or delicious.

•I hate it when people insist on filling a comfortable silence with asinine questions, or when they start tapping their fingers or humming a tune rather than allowing a moment to pass without attention being drawn to them.

•I hate it when a sign at fast food restaurant tells me to have my money ready when I get to the window, but the idiot at the window makes me sit there and wait to pay while s/he takes someone else’s order.

•I hate parents who don’t clean crusty snot out of their kids’ noses as well as those who let babies walk around with diapers so full they’re about to fall off.

•I hate it when adult women speak in squeaky, nasal, little girl voices. I’m completely incapable of taking seriously anything spoken in such a tone.

•I hate the way people think that emails should be answered on the same day they’re sent.

•I hate people who don’t leave messages on answering machines, along with those who leave messages saying “Call me back right away!” over things that, ultimately, aren’t of an emergency nature.

•I hate people who play their car stereos so loudly that I have to hear it, and people who keep talking to me when I say how much I love the song that just came on the radio in my car.

•I hate people who say they’ll be somewhere at a certain time but don’t waltz in for another hour — particularly when they have a cell phone and could’ve called to say they’re running late.

•I hate it when people double-dip chips. I hate it so much, in fact, that I rarely eat dip with others, because you never really know.

•I hate the way some restaurants allow that gross skin to form around the nozzle of the ketchup and mustard dispensers. Can’t. Use. Them.

•I hate it when people think it’s “cute” that their pets climb all over their kitchen counters or tables, and I don’t buy that they can’t make their pet stay the hell off. That’s what squirt guns are for.

•I hate when people pop their zits in the mirror and don’t clean the pus off.

•I hate when people can’t accept a compliment. Like when I say “Wow, that’s a lovely dress!” and they feel obligated to respond, “Oh, this? I got it at Wal-Mart.” Like I care. I just thought it was pretty.

•I hate the way some people can eat those disgusting strings on bananas.

•I hate people who buy me shots of tequilla after hearing that I can’t stand the stuff.

•I hate it when people sing the wrong lyrics.

•I hate it when people eat corn on the cob or fried chicken then put the gnawed-on cob or bone back on the serving platter.

•I hate it when people puke because then I have to puke, too.

•I hate it when people leave cupboards, cabinets or closets open after retrieving something. Close the damn thing. That’s why it has a door!

•I hate it when people use the last piece of toilet paper, the last paper towel, the last Kleenex or the last little bit of hand soap and don’t replace it.

•I hate it when I’m in one of those public bathrooms where the towel is a long roll of thread-bare white cloth and the person before me wipes their hands, getting it all soaking wet, then doesn’t advance the roll. Ewww.

•I hate that whole “poking above the waistline of your pants” fashion thing. You know, the way people are dressing so their thong undies, their boxer shorts or their tattoos show, because all I can think about it how close whatever I’m seeing is to their ass crack and, no matter how you look at it, ass crack is not sexy.

•I hate it when people are trying to tell a story about something that happened to them, then get stuck over some irrelevant detail so I have to wait even longer for them to get to the point.

•Most of all, I hate it when people can’t distinguish the difference between someone’s quirks and the way things ought to be.

Because, like I said, I’m not quirky. Really.

Snagged from Robin and Michele.

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